


Mini-Michael

by ConnorProject2K17



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - All Media Types, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Shaiman/Shaiman & Wittman/Greig
Genre: 2017 Musical Mike, as much as i adore 2013 musical mike i cant deal with that can of worms, but also the fluff, mini-mike, so cute, the horror, they both need a break
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24431680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorProject2K17/pseuds/ConnorProject2K17
Summary: Mike and Ethel’s struggles through living as an eleven inch doll boy.
Kudos: 22





	1. Aw baby boy

Mike

The world was big and scary and loud. 

It’d been a day since Mike and his mother left The Factory and life hadn’t gotten any easier.

Ethel finally calmed down; gibbering and laughing in mania as she stuffed her son in her purse and tottered home. She left her bag on the kitchen table, muttered another creepy sequence about ‘mummy’s little helper is going to be so useful now arent you baby’ before stumbling up the stairs to her room. Leaving Mike all alone.

He climbed out of the purse hours later when his hunger cramps were too much to ignore. His mind slid blank the second he was taken out of The Factory in fear, and was only now returning to him.

He had shrunk. He was shrunk. Mike looked around; his mothers purse was now the size of a horse, the zipper as large as his head.

He hadn’t connected that it was all real yet. At The Factory he had just stared as other kids his age were taken away with the same shock he’d see video game characters die on screen. He hadn’t seen another person in so long he didn’t consider them real. Like now.

The fridge loomed over his tiny body like a sky scraper. He couldn’t see the top no matter how hard he strained his neck. There would be no way of getting it open now. Just yesterday he’d woken up and wandered in, ignoring Ethel’s cheery ‘Good morning, looking forward to The Factory?’ and grabbed an energy drink, then gone back to bed.

Now the idea of opening a door-any door-seemed a million miles away.

His stomach cramped and he doubled over, groaning. Where was his useless mother when he needed her?

For the first time since leaving The Factory an emotion rolled through him.

Anger.

That bitch. That useless, selfish, crazy cow. Wonka would have been able to fix him, no problem. He put him in and out of a television easily, he could unshrink him. But no, Ethel just grabbed him like he was some plaything and ran off, gibbering on about him being her ‘baby’. Mike Teavee hadn’t been her baby in a long time and after this he certainly wouldn’t be her son. She knew what she was doing; she wanted him gone since he was little and this was the perfect punishment! It wasn’t enough to medicate herself into an alcohol coma, now she had to make his life hell as well as hers! 

Mike wouldn’t stand for it. Ethel wasn’t his mother anymore. The second she came downstairs he was dragging her back to The Factory and fixing him! And then he was out of her house and never talking to her again!

His stomach clenched again and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

She was feeding him, then fixing him.

Pain was stabbing into his gut like a knife. He hadn’t had breakfast yesterday, hadn’t eaten anything at The Factory and a whole day had passed since being brought home. 

In the purse Mike had been rattled around, banging into flasks and makeup and he could feel the beginning of bruises forming down his legs. He had screamed at his mot-at Ethel to slow down and stop but she ignored him. Or she couldn’t understand him.

Reality began to settle in. He was hungry, in pain, cold and tired and there was nothing he could do about it. Ethel wasn’t there for him anymore; she had left him. For the first time in his life Mike Teavee was really alone.

Desperately scared, Mike rolled onto his side, clutching his hoodie like a blanket and passed out.

Ethel opened her eyes and blearily stretched.

Ugh, her body was so sore, what the hell had she done last night?

Oh, right. Today was the day she was taking Mike to The Factory. A sharp itching ran down her leg and Ethel looked down; she had fallen asleep in her clothes, and the mesh of her skirt scratched her legs as she slept.

And she wasn’t under her blankets. She must have just collapsed onto her bed the second she walked through the door. Odd, even in her most delusional drunk states she remembered to take off her makeup.

Ethel touched her forehead. She didn’t have a hangover. In fact she felt... fine. More awake than most mornings, without Mike clattering around in his room blasting his video games to full volume.

Ugh, anyway there was no time to be late, the competition was today and she needed to convince him to leave at least three of his consoles behind to not appear rude.

Memories of her dream slid back to her. What a disgusting nightmare. Little orange men and women, girls being ripped apart? Maybe she had drank more than she thought.

And Mike being shrunk down to just-

A wash of sick fell over her. Ha. Imagine, Mike just eleven inches tall. At least then he’d be less of a hassle.

Somehow Ethel didn’t feel better. But that was ridiculous, it was just a nightmare.

Her palms were slick with sweat.

She would go and check on him. Just to make sure he didn’t stay up all night again, nothing to do with that stupid dream.

Ethel pulled herself out of bed and opened her bedroom door.

The house was silent, she realised. Not even the drop of tap water echoed around her.

The Teavee house was never silent-there was always the sound of yelling or laughing or crying. Even when he was asleep Mike usually passed out in front of whatever game he’d been playing, leaving it to carry through the walls.

But now there was silence.

Ethel yanked open her door and opened Mike’s on the other side of the hallway. It was unlocked. His bed just as unmade as it had been that morning, his consoles-that she made him leave behind-clattered on his desk.

She was light headed. She stumbled on his carpeted floor and nearly collapsed.

They hadn’t gone to the factory yet. They hadn’t. Ethel was a grown woman, Oompa-Loompas and giant squirrels didn’t exist.

She ran downstairs.

Her purse was on the kitchen table where she left it.

Next to her sleeping Mike.

Ethel screamed.

Mike was jerked awake by a piercing sound, like an air siren and got to his feet.

His mother’s giant green brooch stared back at him.

He screamed.

The siren stopped and the brooch ducked below the table, before his moms blue eyes stared at him, where she was crouched next to the table.

“Mom?!” He shrieked. His mother’s face went pale.

“Mikey?!”

Mike’s first instinct carried him as he ran to her, arms outstretched. He didn’t know what he was doing, just that he wanted her. Now.

His foot pressed into thin air and before he knew it Mike stumbled and fell. 

His mothers hands caught him.

Her skin was calloused and rough he realised as he lat there panting, clutching one if her fingers as it curled around his waist. He felt lightheaded.

“Mike?” His mother asked again. He looked up at her.

“Mom? Mom what’s going on? Mom what’s happened to me, mom? Mom?” The words spilled out of him at a mile a minute, as Ethel’s face grew more and more contorted with confusion.

“I can’t understand you honey, speak up.”

Mike’s eyes widened.

“MOM! MOM?!”

Her hands were shaking and he was being shook with them.

“M-Mikey. Mikey i’m so sorry I can’t-this isn’t-Mikey-“

Mike watched helplessly as his mother burst into tears. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen his mom cry because of him, but God if it didn’t hurt the most.

“...mom?” He tried one last time, useless as Ethel placed him back on the table.

“I’m so sorry Mike. I couldn’t-I didn’t do anything. I can’t help you. This is all my fault.”

It wasn’t her fault. A rare and out of character thought for Mike Teavee, but he didn’t care. Like a popped balloon all of the anger ran out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and cold.

Before The Factory Mike was angry at everyone all the time, for everything. Why couldn’t they be as smart as him? And why couldn’t they at least acknowledge that? But this wasn’t like Ethel tripping over a spare wire and ruining his game, all Mike wanted now to be held in his mothers arms and told there was nothing wrong. He had taken it for granted for years and now it was something he might never have again.

Mike held onto Ethel’s finger and for the first time in years, cried with her.


	2. Both adorable yet tragic

Ethel tried to stop her hands from shaking too much as she cradled him, watching as he squeaked and chittered: too high pitched for her to make out.

“Baby?” She asked, gently placing him back on the kitchen table. He rolled himself into a ball, arms clutching his sides.

“What do we do?”

Mike always had an answer to everything. He was a certified genius, and even if he was wrong it never stopped him from plowing ahead with his plans anyway.

Clearly.

But now he just sat there, quivering like a leaf, staring up at her with big glassy eyes.

Ethel swallowed and stood up properly. Her shadow engulfed him.

“A-are you hungry?” 

He looked at her like she was insane. His face was so small his expressions were harder to make out, but he had a clear aura of exasperation. No matter what size he was clearly still Mike.

But Ethel wouldn’t be swayed. Her son was scared, crying even, and her motherly instincts were kicking in. Plowing past her own confusion, as it had always done.

“Can I get you som-something? To eat?” She asked again, trying to keep herself from crying again.

Mike didn’t move.

“Mikey?” Ethel pleaded, placing a hand near him. He shied away.

“Mikey please help me, do you need something?”

His head moved. She squinted.

“Wa-as that a nod? Or dod you shake your head?”

He moved again. Ethel bit her lip. They just stared at each other for a moment before Mike stood up on shaky legs. He waved his arms up and down.

“Is that a nod?”

Up, down. Up, down.

“Okay. Okay.” She could work with this. Ethel hurried over the fridge and threw it open, and began scrounging through it.

“Um, milk, eggs, a carrot. Er... oh there’s soup. Would you like some soup baby?” She looked back at him. He waved his arms up and down.

“Alright.” She got to work, turning on the stove and pulling out bowls like she had done a million times before; completely on auto pilot. This was insane. She was making soup for a miniature doll-boy. All that alcohol and medication had finally done her in and Ethel had lost her mind, she was sure of it.

When it was all ready she placed the bowl of steaming tomato soup in front of her son. The bowl came up to his waist and was the size of a pool compared to him. Mike reached out a hand to touch it, and immediately yanked back, a squeak yelping from him.

“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Ethel squealed, getting to her feet. Now what? Mike was cradling his burnt hand, looking up at her. She still couldn’t read his expressions properly. 

Mike started ‘yelling’; he sounded like a little bird, hopping in anger on the table. He pointed at his mother, then at the soup, and stomped his foot. Ethel cringed.

“I-er, hang on a second.”

She flittered around the kitchen, looking for something, anything. The smallest bowl she owned was as wide as Mike was long now, what to do, what to do.

She opened a random drawer so fast something creaked and she was sure it was now broken. Whatever, one problem at a time.

Ethel buried her hands in the menagerie of random objects-digging past boxes of plasters and pills-until her hand bumped something tiny and metal. She pulled it out.

It was a thimble.

She held it between her fingers like it was the holy grail, and turned back to Mike, smiling.

Pulling up a seat at the table and carefully filled the thimble with soup and placed it in front of her son.

Ethel was close enough now that she could see Mike’s face properly. He looked like he wanted to kill her. He was almost completely red, teensy fists curled at his teensy sides, glaring between her and the offending item like he was deciding which to destroy first.

Then he winced and gripped his stomach. Ethel’s hand reached out without her meaning to, and Mike took a step back.

He slumped his shoulders dramatically and grabbed the thimble, then brought it to his face.

She couldn’t see if he was actually drinking it, but after a while he put it down and wiped his face. He had some soup down his shirt.

“Ooh, baby you’ve got some-“ Ethel pointed and he looked down, then made a disappointed squeak at the mess. They looked at each other.

“...guess we’ll have to go shopping.” Ethel pointed out, drumming a hand against the table.

“I wonder if you’ll fit into a Barbie’s clothes.”

Mike threw the thimble at her.


	3. Success!

Ethel decided dolls clothes are the way forward, because his shirt was too small to wash properly and no matter how badly she wished she was a 1950’s housewife, Ethel doesn’t know how to sew. And Mike can’t argue.

Not that he didn’t try. He yelled and ranted and raved as he finished his thimble-which has now climbed its way to third place on Mike’s shit list-but Ethel just sat there looking confused and scared. Because Mike’s voice is too small for her to hear.

Mike has never not been heard before. Online he would hack into someones computer and mess with them until they conceded defeat, and in video games he’d swear into a headset for hours before either he lost his voice or the other person logged off. As a child if he didn’t get what he wanted he stood stone still and screamed. Michael Teavee never had a problem with being heard.

Until now.

Ethel can’t answer any of his questions or help his more specific problems (like he’s pretty sure his leg might actually be sprained), she doesn’t even ask him to be quiet. She just listened and sighed and looked like she was trying not to cry.

“So,” she finally said as Mike caught his breath, “I think there’s a Toys r Us nearby, we’ll try there?”

She phrased it like a question, as if Mike had any say in the matter. He glared at her, then remembered she couldn’t see him, and kicked the thimble over. Ethel stood up.

She picked up her purse and opened it, angling it towards him. Mike stared at it. Then at her. Then at it. Ethel slowly closed it again.

“... no to the purse?” She asked, wrinkling her nose. Mike swayed his arms side to side in a ‘No’ with as much force as he could.

In his opinion The Purse was seen with the same amount of contempt as The Factory. It was cramped and stank of old perfume and pencil shavings. It was uncomfortable and cold and and...

And Mike could still remember feeling his mothers hand close around his waist, crushing his chest as she picked him up, laughing, and shoved him in. He clambered to his feet, hands grasping at anything he could find to climb out ‘this isn’t happening this can’t be happening someone help him why wasn’t his mom helping him?!’, before being knocked down again and watching the world disappear as the zip was shut above him.

“No purse.” Ethel said again, with more finality this time, and put the purse down. Mike took a step back from it, warily.

“I assume you don’t want to go in any other bags?” She offered and Mike stomped his foot. She sighed.

“Well I can’t exactly carry you there, unless you want to stay completely still. Besides someone would recognise you, and I don’t want to be asked why I have a replica doll of my son!” Ethel’s voice grew as she ranted until she was yelling, and slammed her hands down on the table. Mike wobbled under the force. 

He had an idea. A stupid idea that if he weren’t in his own personal hell he’d scoff at, but an idea none the less.

He ran the edge of the table, and looked up at his mother expectantly. Ethel gave him funny look, reached out, paused, then moved the nearest chair closer to him. Good, he thought to himself, she’s learning.

He jumped from the table to the chair (using more exercise than he’d used in years) before awkwardly climbing to the floor. Sprinting to other side of the room (leaving his lungs burning and face sweating but he tried to ignore it) he pointed to a cabinet. Ethel got up followed to where he was pointing, and opened it.

Inside there were a collection glass jars from when she had been planning to make jam. She looked down at her son.

Mike pointed to the jars more viciously, and she grabbed one and brought it down to him.

Mike stared at the jar-at his own distorted reflection-and circled it. It came up to his neck, but with more manoeuvring he was sure he could fit. But the lid...

Mike tapped on the lid, sending his mother an obvious look and she removed it. Mike hefted a leg up and over, and climbed inside.

It was a snug fit, and he’d probably need some hell getting out, but he could sit in it. With his knees against his forehead and his arms holding his stomach. 

“...Mike?” Ethel called out to him. Mike craned his neck to look up at her.

She seemed to get the idea. Picking up a spare pen just lying around, Ethel stabbed at the lid. Thankfully it was a paper one so it broke easily, and she tightened it back over the jar.

“Can you breath okay?” She asked, and picked it up. Mike held his breath in anticipation, but nothing happened. He couldn’t feel her fingers pressing into him, or the rush of air as he was carried. Just the cold glass of the jar.

He moved his arms best he could up and down and Ethel breathed a sigh of relief.

“Let’s get going then.”

And she placed him in her purse-Mike’s eyes squeezed shut-and carried him off.


	4. Uwu fashion time

The jar had been the best idea they could have come up with given the circumstances. Ethel needed to collect miniature items for her miniature son, and there was no way she was leaving him at home. 

She peers into her bag at the jar for what must be the hundredth time since leaving the house. But Mike is still safely sitting inside, only slightly jostled as she hurries as fast as she can down the high street. Ethel curses her inability to drive them there.

Ethel hadn’t been to the toy store in the mall years. She distinctly remembered strolling down the doll aisle, several months pregnant with her then-husband on her arm, wondering allowed if their little Michael or Charlotte would prefer race cars or tea sets. Mike hadn’t liked either. The first and only time he’d gone to that toy store he’d thrown a fit because the lights were too bright and the noise was too loud and other babies kept touching him.

Her husband had left shortly after.

Ethel came back to reality, blinking away sudden tears. She hadn’t thought she had anything left in her.

But now was not the time to think about that.

Finally she made it and the automatic doors slide open for her.

A few pregnant mothers in yoga pants scurried around looking for the perfect baby grow or teddy bear and a cashier picked at their braces from behind the register. Nobody recognised her as the woman on television proudly claiming her son as the smartest boy in Idaho. Nobody even guessed that she was carrying that same son in her bag.

Avoiding eye contact Ethel hurried to the Barbie selection at the other end of the shop. Luckily for her, it was completely empty. 

Peering left and right (and checking no security cameras were looking her way) she pulled the jar out of her bag and set it on an empty shelf, then unscrewed the lid.

Mike clambered out, stretching his skinny legs. He looked around, then squeaked up at his mother.

“It’s not a great selection but it’ll have to do.” Ethel told him, pretending she could understand what the hell he was talking about. Mike dramatically shrugged and wandered over to the nearest box to start checking it.

“Yell for me if you see anything.” Ethel said and started peering over the opposite shelf.

The Bratz were too skinny and weirdly shaped, and the My First Baby selection were twice Mike’s size. Ethel examined each doll with a critical eye; preppy dolls, dress up dolls, toddler dolls, rag dolls. Even dolls that peed and pooped themselves. She wrinkled her nose at that one. 

Finally she came to the Barbies, at the very end of the aisle. She was pretty sure Mike would throw a fit if she got him one of these.

But they did seem to be his exact size. She had enough respect for her son to stick to the Ken’s at least. She didn’t think Mike would appreciate if she bought him a neon pink and sequinned mini skirt. 

A tall blonde Ken caught her eye; standing proudly in a mint green letterman, khakis and tennis shoes. ‘1950’s Ken’ was written on the side.

Oh, her little Mikey would look so cute in that. He would look like a little athlete, and they could match colours. Her hand hovered over the doll ready to pick it up.

He would be her little baby again, all ready for dress up. He never complained when she put him in his cute coats and hats, only kicking and cooing sweetly.

He would... would...

A memory came back to her. A memory that had been foggy and murky since leaving The Factory.

“Oh, thank you Mr Wonka! Time to go home now Mikey, mummy’s going to have a new little helper around.”

Her own laughter and Mike’s screaming echoed through her mind, and her hand fell to her side.

This wasn’t a game. These plastic toys may be dolls but Mike wasn’t. He was a real flesh and blood boy who spent half his life being ignored by his mother and shoved in front of a television screen. But Ethel couldn’t do that anymore. Now every moment of Mike’s life he was going to need her help, and she had to take this seriously.

Ethel straightened herself up. This is finally her moment to show she wasn’t a failure as a mother. To herself and to Mike.

She went back to the dolls. A second Ken stared back at her.

Just as tan and muscular as the last, but with that silly floppy brown hair it seems all boy bands have these days. It had a black shirt with an explosion printed on the front and ripped black jeans covered in chains.

Perfect.

“Hey Mike what do you think about-“ she called out as she grabbed the box, only to be interrupted by the sound of frantic and fast squeaking.

“Look mommy it’s that boy off the tv!”

Ethel whirled around, to see a little girl next to her parents, pretty in pink, jumping up and down.

Clutching Mike between her grubby little fingers.


	5. Did you just disrespect Ethel Teavee? Epic cringe dude

Mike tried to settle his stomach as he was jostled up and down. The feeling of those fat fingers, smothered in chocolate almost crushing his ribcage sent his mind racing and he was too shocked to yell.

He could only watch in silent horror as he was picked up by the girls parents and passed from hand to hand. The mother turned him over and pulled at the back of his hoodie, obviously looking for a label or price tag, and grunted dismissively.

“This is getting ridiculous,” she muttered to her husband, now running a stubbly nail through Mike’s hair, “first the brat gets a parade and now they’re making merchandise? It’s disgusting, honestly.”

“Not much else goes on around here, to be honest.” The husband countered, taking Mike from her. He stared at Mike’s face, who tried to stay as still as possible. The husband lifted one of Mike’s legs and bent it.

“It’s impressive though. Look they’ve even got the design of his shoes. Must be 3D printed.” He thought allowed, then handed him back to his wife. Mike tried not to breath too hard.

“I don’t care Jim,” the wife sighed, and poked at Mike’s chest idly.

“I don’t suppose you remember but Mike Teavee used to go to school with Timothy. He was the boy who punched him in gym class.”

Mike vaguely remembered Timothy. Some mouth breathing jock with muscles bigger than his head, who got mad one day cause Mike tried to use the ‘I lost my uniform’ trick too many weeks in a row. Mick distinctly remembered being put in a headlock before sitting in the principles office next to his placating mother.

Back in the present day Jim and his wife had apparently grown bored of inspecting him and threw him into their shopping basket.

“Mummy, can I have him?” He could barely see the girl beaming up at her parents from the awkward position he had landed in.

“Yes Anna. But we’re here to get something for your brother, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

The family of three and a kidnapped Mike moved down the aisle until they had left the doll section entirely. 

“Psst!” 

Mike carefully turned his head without anyone spotting him. His mothers large hair was barely peeking out from behind a stack of Tickle-Me-Wigglies, her ginormous fifties skirt taking up the whole width of the aisle. Damn her ridiculously specific aesthetic!

Mike shot his mom a panicked look before remembering she couldn’t see and moved his arm.

Ethel seemed to malfunction fir a moment before she collected herself, and hurried over to the family.

“Excuse me!” She called out, straightening out her hair to pretend she wasn’t chasing after her stolen eleven inch son.

The wife who was carrying the shopping basket paused, and turned around.

“... Mrs Teavee?” Mike heard her ask. From Mike’s angle he could only see the little girl, clinging to Jim’s hand as she browsed the nearby comic book shelf.

“Ahem, yes. Sorry. I just noticed your daughter accidentally took my, um, doll.”

“This is yours?” The wife asked, skeptically.

“Leyla.” Jim hissed, voice etched with warning.

“Er, yes,” Ethel stammered, and Mike saw her hand inch closer towards him.

“I think I must have left him on a shelf and your daughter confused him for a Toys r Us doll.” She laughed awkwardly, and gently picked up Mike by his waist. He held his breath to ignore the panic flowing through him. He hated being touched before and after the last two days he didn’t know if he’d ever willingly touch anyone ever again.

“Well,” Leyla sighed, “Anna found it, and she said she wanted it so we’re getting it for her.”

“... but you can’t buy him.”

“Then we won’t have to pay any money.” And with that Mike was yanked by another hand and put back in the basket. His stomach lurched.

“Hey come back! He’s not yours!”

“Y’know what Ethel?” Leyla spat, “I am so sick of you, and your son. Every week at book club the rest of us talk about what our kids learnt at school, and what they did with thejr friends. But you never have anything to say. Because Michael does nothing. He just sits in his room, like a pig in filth, and doesn’t talk to anybody.”

“How dare you!” His mom shot back. Mike could hear her teacher voice sinking in. 

“No, how dare you Ethel. You forget, i’ve met your son; he’s an obnoxious brat who’ll never amount to anything and you know it! What, he hacked a computer, big whoop. He couldn’t even finish high school but you paid for this grand parade for him!”

Wait. His mom... paid for that parade? She told him the local news just set it up for him. Nothing really exciting in Idaho so it would make sense.

Except no it wouldn’t. No one in his town liked him. He was just that delinquent who had to take scary pills and never left the house. In school he had been voted ‘Most Likely To End Up In Jail’.

Wow. He hadn’t actually thought about that in a while. Lying here, tangled in his own limbs as he was passed from person to person, made his head grow crowded as different voices started yelling.

“Mike’s just high-spirited!”

“If you had any sense you’d ship him off to military school. At least then the rest of us wouldn’t have to put up with him!”

A slapping sound rang around the room.

“Ethel what the fu-“

“... um, excuse me?” A final voice appeared, “i’m going to ask you to leave before I call the police.”

“I-i’m so sorry I was just-“

“Don’t worry sir we were just going.”

And Mike was grabbed one last time and shoved back into his moms purse. The smell of perfume and pencil shavings hit him, and he climbed into his jar before he could really spiral.

Mike looked up at his mom as she stormed out of the store.

Maybe she was a touch more awesome than he was willing to admit.


End file.
